Awash in the post-taco glow

I know. I'm off living my life and not writing about it. Crazy, huh?

A bus hit me in my car. Still dealing with insurance and, as TK said, some of the organge-y goodness has been squished out of Julius.

On July 3 I passed the five year mark of living in San Francisco. It filled my mind with nostalgia and memories of the day that Chris and I arrived with the moving truck feeling exhausted and wary and anxious. So many things have happened since then. I have fallen into and out of love, gotten jobs, gotten fired, made new friends, lost one friend, lost my two beloved grandparents, traveled, has emotional breakdowns, got help, got lost, got found...and so on.

I have some decisions to make. I keep putting them off, hoping they will get easier.

Incredibly optimistic

I am quite excited about my interview tomorrow--I feel so optimistic. Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself in my head (planning walks to work, searching for recipes for healthy lunches to pack) but I can't help it. I am such a great fit for this position.

Maybe Thursday, May 13 should be known as Amie's Independence Day.

Maybe this is the beginning of great things.

Maybe a little weekend trip is warranted in the near future.

Maybe I am not a lost cause.

Maybe the things I want can happen for me.

Once there was a girl

This has been a long time coming. I just didn't have the courage to tell the story before.

*********************

Once there was a girl who didn’t think she was worth very much.

She was a shy, introspective, and melancholy girl by nature, and probably destined to have self-esteem problems even without the things that happened to her. She had a very young, single mom. Her mom was lost and lonely and didn’t think she was worth very much, either. So she did things to make herself feel worth something—all the things that made her feel worth something involved men and drugs. The girl’s mom loved her very much, but when she was on drugs she didn’t care what her daughter witnessed. Even when it involved men. And more drugs.

When our girl was five, her mom got married. This is when the girl’s problems began in earnest.

Her shiny new stepfather tarnished very quickly. (If you ever want a nice case study of brainwashing and pure, unadulterated physical and psychological torture, you should study this man. He still remains the cruelest human being the girl has ever personally known.)

The girl and her mom were stuck. They were broke. They were powerless against him. Other people knew he was not a nice man. No one ever knew the things they went through. He was very creative and sly.

The girl wanted to ask for help, but she didn’t know the right words. She didn’t know how to say:

“My stepfather makes me feed myself cat shit while he watches and laughs.”

Or what about, “He grabs me by the hair and beats my head against the wall if I don’t pick everything up off the floor. And even when I pick everything up off the floor, he pretends it’s still there laying in front of me and beats my head against the wall because I say I don’t see anything there. So I pretend to see what he sees, and gather up imaginary pieces of what he sees in my arms while looking at him, hoping I have pleased him.”

How was she to explain that he made it a game to see how hard of a hit she could take without falling down? She was only a little girl, and it was impossible to withstand the full force of a grown man. So she was destined to be knocked down. And to get back up. Over and over again.

When you are little, it’s not easy to tell people your stepfather held a gun to your head while the police surrounded the house and your mother screamed. He wanted to be sure she wouldn’t leave, you see. Sometimes he even hurt their pets in front of them. (This was especially hard for the girl. She loved all creatures. Except locusts. Their sounds and shells terrorized her.)

The girl and her mother were required to recite specific sentences regularly in order to ensure their powerlessness: “I am a bitch. I am a whore. I am ugly. I am stupid. I am fat. No one loves me. No one will help me. I am a bitch. I am a whore….” When the girl started off saying these things, she knew in her heart that they weren’t true and that she was just saying them to appease him. But after saying them regularly, over and over, these words started floating through her head even when she was not being forced to say them.

The girl did the only things she could think of to cope. In kindergarten, she went to school with bruises under her clothes and locked herself in the bathroom and screamed hysterically when it was time to go home. She escaped to her grandparents’ houses whenever she could. She played outside from morning to night with the neighborhood kids as often as she could. When the neighborhood kids weren’t around, she found places to hide and explore with imaginary friends created for that very occasion. She took long rides on her bicycle and ate green apples from other people's yards. She gave names and personalities to everything around her—the trees, the flowers, the animals, the broom—to make her feel surrounded by familiar faces and friends.

Unfortunately, her stepfather was not the only one who made the girl think she wasn’t worth very much. There was more than one man, in her family and otherwise, who were more than willing to let her know she was only good for one thing.

One of them was an uncle who had his own cross to bear. He did things that no little girl should ever have to experience. She was five. She wore Care-Bear pajamas. While it happened, sometimes she would stare at a picture of the devil whose iridescent paint gleamed at her in the moonlight; other times she stared out the window and directly at the moon itself. The girl felt so dirty and was so ashamed that she wanted to curl up and die.

But she did not.

She got really good at picking up the pieces of love and acceptance she could find and curling herself around them like a cat.

Years later, when the girl and her mom (and now two brand new baby brothers) finally got away from the stepfather by going into hiding for awhile, the girl’s mother fell apart. And rightfully so. But then the girl’s one constant ally through those times, her mother, felt more than ever like she wasn’t worth very much. And she tried to make the girl and her brothers feel as bad as she felt because she didn’t have anything else left to give them.

…Fast forward…

Our girl is 15. Her physical situation is much more stable now, but she is confused, hurting, and lonely inside. She is mortally self-conscious and shy and terrified of every move she makes—what if she makes someone mad? She gets better at hiding these things and at doing the things a normal girl should. She is positive, however, that if anyone really knew all of the things that made her up they would be horrified and disgusted and not want to be around her. They would discover for themselves what she’d always felt inside—that she wasn’t worth very much.

At that young age the girl fell in love with a shy, introspective, and melancholy boy. He didn’t have the deep, dark secrets that she had, but he listened to her secrets and didn’t make her feel ashamed. This boy gave her the courage to try for things she never thought she could do. She left home when she was 16 and set about trying to make those things happen.

She actually did some cool things.

She went to college and she was very, very serious. Others around her had the liberty to fuck around, but the girl knew she had one shot and she had to make it happen. She didn’t fuck around at all—not even one little bit.

She started to explore the world. Every chance she got to do so, she took it.

She didn’t know what she wanted to do when she got out of school, so she went to school some more. She wanted to know things and to feel she had some power and control over her life. She used to laugh when she thought of herself with any kind of high-falutin' graduate degree. It seemed terrifying and unattainable and ridiculous to her. So she decided to shoot for it. She eventually pulled it off.

The boy was there through it all--even when she tried to test him by pushing him away. (She was still very afraid, you see, of everything and everyone.) She warned the boy, “If you ever lay a hand on me, I will set you on fire.” She was pretty sure he wouldn’t hurt her, but she also knew a thing or two about self-preservation.

When the girl was 24, she started to honestly look around at her life for the first time. She started to look deep inside herself, too. She started to realize that she needed more—that what she had was not enough. She even started to admit to herself that the boy was not enough. This was terrifying to her. He had loved her and given her strength and courage when she needed it most.

She realized she had been in survival mode for a very long time.

Upon these realizations, she felt lost and lonely inside. She knew what her instincts told her but she hadn’t yet really learned to trust them. She was uncertain of who she was, what she needed, and how to go about finding out either of those things. (It was a tough time.)

Once again, she didn’t know the right words. She was now an adult and had a much wider vocabulary at her disposal, but she didn’t know how to tell the boy, “Thank you for loving me even when I couldn’t love myself. Now I need to move beyond these fences we’ve built; they are pinning me in and I am dying inside. You loved me as a child, and now, should I be lucky enough to love and be loved back again, it needs to be as the woman I am.”

When she was 28, the girl did another thing she never imagined she could do and that was very terrifying to her. She left everything and everyone she loved behind and moved far, far away to try to make a completely different kind of life for herself. It was very painful. It actually took her a couple of years to make it all come together, but she made it happen. At the last minute, the boy decided he wanted to come, too. The girl thought it wasn’t the right thing, but she felt like it was worth one last try. (She was still afraid, you see.)

It was a disaster from the start. The girl knew that living with anyone would never be easy, but this move proved to her once and for all that she loved him, but her relationship with him was not enough. She was honest with him from a very early point that it wasn’t working for her. He kept trying. It broke her heart, but it wasn’t enough. The girl finally told the boy she was moving out, that it might take some time to put the pieces in place, but that it was going to happen and he needed to make plans for himself. It was terrible, of course, and still continues to be very, very difficult. Her friends, both near and far, have helped her find the courage to move forward.

It took a very long time and seemed like a simple lesson to learn, but she finally started to realize that she is worth something. She also realized that she deserves something more. (The girl’s mother has not yet put these pieces together for herself. The girl has no idea how to help her.)

There are days, of course, when the doubts creep in and when “moving forward” seems to be at a glacial pace, but there it is.

This was that girl, a long time ago:



And this was the first postcard secret she sent out in the world to try to be set free:



(She still has work to do, but she has been fighting for years now with everything she has. She will make it.)

THE END

In my head I am so far away from here.

I want to spend the day on a blanket in the park. A bottle of wine would be nice here, but not necessary.

I want to see Tennessee Valley up in Mill Valley, CA.



I want to drive to Santa Cruz and spend the afternoon riding rides. And then I want to go to that little shop with all the lanterns.

I want to be most anywhere but here at my desk, feeling as though the world is passing me by as I send emails to participants in a research study.

The day I kept driving

For as long as I can remember, I have felt the need to have an escape plan from my life.

Recently, I was driving to work and I was immersed in my thoughts and music and I just kept going and going. Eventually there was a break in my reverie and I looked around and thought, Where am I? Where am I going? (Excellent questions, in general, as it turns out.) Nothing was familiar. I had bypassed my exit on the interstate and was heading south for parts unknown.

For a brief moment, I was free.

My mind swelled with the possibilities of where I would go and what I would call myself. Should I have a colorful past or keep it vague and mysterious? Should I make an attempt to let my family know I was alive or just fade into their memories? Where are the best beaches in Central and South America? Would I get the infamous Brazilian wax? Could I support myself by giving diving lessons? Could I learn to scuba dive in the first place? Would I eventually blend in with the locals? How far could I get?

I mentally calculated the amount of money in my bank account and, upon realizing I could only get about as far as San Jose, I sighed. And turned around.

(This was revised from an earlier piece.)

Strata

1. I recently fell in love with two songs and now I have to hear them over and over. And over.

Antony and the Johnsons - "Fistful of Love"

Bon Iver - "Skinny Love"

2. I want to go to Prague. I can't find the name of the cafe that lets you throw stale rolls.

3. I had the coziest Christmas with Nannette and Scott. I felt warm and loved and mentally stimulated. Prosecco, peach and blackberry cobbler, blankets, and decorating boxes. What could be better?

4. I didn't expect the box I decorated to become so personal. I was hoping to give it as a gift or maybe to sell it, and now I don't know if I can. My favorite parts say "It happened" and "At that moment, no one else compared." Other people's words that I made my own.

5. Tonight I am going through boxes of things, trying to clear out space in my office. Going through the strata of old letters from people I've loved, old pictures of myself, and the jottings I've made on scraps of paper over the years is painful and bittersweet. I'm trying clear space for the new.

In between

I imagine there are only a few moments in your life, at best, when you have the opportunity to tell another human being--really tell them--the impact they've had on you. The funny thing about these moments is that it seems like each second should be momentous and dripping with meaning, and that usually isn't the case. It often seems that they could easily be mistaken as a moment of lesser import because they are sandwiched in between more mundane and trivial affairs: Did I remember to turn off the coffee pot? My foot itches How long would a piece of hail last if I were to save it in my freezer?

Yesterday morning I had the opportunity to say these things to my grandpa--my favorite person in the world, living or dead. I was exhausted and feeling rushed My hair was dripping from taking a bath and I was having trouble getting my suitcase closed. I needed to stop and get gas before getting on the interstate to go back to the Pittsburgh airport.

I felt self-conscious about asking my mom and my step-grandma to leave me alone with him for a few moments. I worried that I would lose my nerve to face up to this conversation. I wondered how to sum up a lifetime of love for and memories of and gratitude toward someone.

He looked small and frail in pajamas that have grown too big for him. I pulled a kitchen chair into the living room and sat next to him in his recliner. I took his hand into mine and looked him in the eyes. I told him everything I wanted to say. I wept. I thanked him for loving me and helping to raise me. I told him how important he was to me and I loved him very much.

He squeezed my hand and listened to me with tears in his eyes. He told me in a weak voice that I'd brought so much happiness into his life. He told me not to feel guilty about not coming home for his funeral because he didn't want one. He told me he would watch over me. He told me he'd had a good life. I stroked his arm and asked him if he was scared. "No," he said quietly.

I hugged and kissed him, called everyone back in the room, and said my goodbyes. Then I slipped back into business mode--loading my suitcase in the car, checking my watch, and returning to the life I've created for myself on the west coast.

For a change

Alternative title to this blog: Meta-Blogging-Analysis

Perhaps you have noticed: I'm good at being fairly cryptic in this blog.

Sometimes I am deliberately vague. Sometimes I speak through song lyrics that others have written. Sometimes through a picture or poem or portion of a story. Sometimes through metaphor or dream.

I do this for two reasons. One is that I write about some pretty private and, at times, dark stuff. I know the majority of the people that read this blog, but STILL. This level of protection allows me to feel that I am laying myself completely bare while still having something to hide behind.

The second reason is that sometimes other people's actions cause me pain and confusion and anger, and I end up directly or indirectly processing them here. Other than the sharing of funny stories or partial conversations or tales of my mother, it isn't my intention to write about other people's business in here. This encryption is a way of protecting them, too, even if at the time I'm writing about them I want to kill them.

When I first began writing this blog in the late summer of 2006, it just seemed fun to have an outlet: somewhere to put odds and ends even if no one ever read them but me. In the beginning I tended to write about lighter things. But as my fourteen year relationship was unraveling and I was (what felt like) leaving nearly half of my life behind and starting over again at the age of 30, I began writing in here in earnest. I really cannot emphasize enough how much this has helped me over the last couple of years--to know that I have this outlet, to know that you are reading.

For a change, then, at this moment I'm just going to come out and say what I mean. I need to share this with someone, need to actually say the words, and I don't feel like hiding behind anything. I still have someone else's privacy to protect so I can't say absolutely everything, but I can come pretty close.

As many of you know, since C. and I broke up I've been involved in the murky world of dating. I've met some very nice people. I've made one very dear friend. I fell head over heels in love and was hurt deeply (and I still struggle with that). I had a couple of short but nice relationships. I had a couple of serious disappointments. In a nutshell, I guess my experiences are not so different than everyone else's--I just got started a little later.

Here are some things that I find myself coming back to over and over again throughout these experiences. Some are questions. Others are doubts and fears:

- How much can/should you know about someone or should they know about you?

In my ideal relationship, I'd like to be able to share everything. Not everyone agrees with this.

- How much honesty is too much?

Again, in my ideal relationship, I want to be able to say anything and know that it will not be judged or ridiculed or held against me, and I'd like to be able to offer the same to my partner.

- Is it possible to be known thoroughly and loved deeply at the same time? I wish I could say "Yes, absolutely," but so far my experiences have just not shown that to be true. I am still hopeful. I am still incredibly hopeful.

The last three people I was in a relationship with said they wanted to KNOW me. They wanted to know what I was thinking and feeling, no matter how crazy or weird or dark it seemed. They wanted to listen; they wanted me to feel like I could tell them anything. When I eventually started taking them up on it and trying to say anything, *poof* they vanished. I have become highly suspicious of anyone who says this and--for the right person--I don't want to be.

On Friday night I went out on a date. This has been happening a lot lately, but on this night I was nearly sick to my stomach with anxiety. I was so nervous. On the way to the wine bar where we were meeting, I played the most lovely and calming song I know over and over and over. A dear friend of mine sweetly texted me messages of love and encouragement, and I tried to keep it together.

Considering how unconventionally it started (i.e., spreading false rumors about T.S. Eliot--it's a long story), it was the best date. It was so easy. It was so much fun. We sat and talked for over four hours right there at that table and, other than the occasional punctuation of getting more drinks, I was barely aware of time passing. Of course I talked my brains out. But I tried to make myself shut up frequently, too. We laughed and laughed. I consider myself reasonably well-traveled, but he's traveled at least five times as much.

The more we talked and the more I gazed at him across the table, the more I thought, "I can't believe you're sitting right here in front of me. How is it possible that you even exist?"

Near the end of the night we were trading lists of places we wanted to go. I was naming mine in between his encouragement of, "Don't think! Just say them!" When I said, "Southeast Asia," he said, "Oh, God. Bali is beautiful. Let's go. Do you want to go?"

My eyes widened and I said, "What, NOW?"

With complete seriousness he said, "Yes, we would have an amazing time. We could be there in 13 hours."

My heart started to thump. The person who would say something like this to me has always been my fantasy. My brain started to search wildly for ways to make this work. I tried not to completely lose control.

We continued to talk about it; I felt just couldn't. If I hadn't just started this job. I said, "I'll plan a trip to Bali with you; I just can't go tonight." He smiled and we went on to continue our conversation.

At a couple of different points he mentioned how much fun he was having, and I was glad he'd said it and not me. I felt so dorky because I kept wanting to say, "I'm so happy!" I gave him a ride home and, when he invited me in, my God I wanted to go. I declined politely because I don't want to fuck this up. He kissed me gently and we said goodnight. As I pulled away, I rolled down all the car windows. I felt so alive and excited. I wanted the night-time air swirling around me.

Now I'm left wondering about "the rules." Who should say what and when? I had promised to send him a poem that we talked about. I haven't sent it yet but shouldn't he first say...? Or, he asked me out the first time and now is it my...? I hate worrying about this bullshit. I kind of just want to say, "I really want to see you again," but it feels so hard. I'm afraid.

So there it is--where I'm at now. I won't always be able to provide this level of candor.

ADDENDUM at 8:54 am:

I did it. I said it. No matter what happens, it cannot be said that it happened because I lost my nerve.

Today I kept driving.

I was driving to work this morning and I was immersed in my thoughts and music and I just kept going and going. Eventually there was a break in my reverie and I looked around and thought, Where am I? Nothing was familiar. I had bypassed my exit and was heading south for parts unknown.

How much money is in my bank account? I wondered. How far could I get?

I remembered I was still waiting for a large paycheck in the mail from my summer teaching job. My heart sunk further when I realized that I couldn't get through the Darien Gap without having a jeep or being held at gunpoint, and I sighed.

I turned around.

Um, I got a second job.

I know, I know! It's getting ridiculous. I have been teaching part-time at San Francisco State in the Human Sexuality Studies department. This fall I will be teaching an evening Quantitative Methods course (basically, statistics) in the Sociology department.

You may wonder why I accepted this second position. I'm glad you asked. This is why:

1. I love, love, love teaching statistics. It's easier to tell if you're doing a good job than it is in other classes. If even one of my students can't do a one-way ANOVA, I know it immediately. It's much harder to be able to tease out whether each and every one of them grasps the more theoretical constructs of the other courses, like, "In what ways did footbinding serve to maintain the patriarchy in China for nearly a thousand years?"

2. I need the money, fools. I ain't wealthy or anything. I've got a trip to Europe with Nannette to pay for in a few months. And the car that I need to buy. And the iPod adapter thingy that I'll need to enjoy my music during my commute. And--don't forget--I need to pay for those pole-dancing lessons and more bikini wax jobs from the infamous Vietnamese waxer-lady, Penney.

3. It's good to have a bit of a back-up plan. While I'm excited about my new full-time job, you just never know. When they find out I do things like take pictures of public bathroom stalls, they might be a little alarmed. I don't want to burn all my other bridges.

Huzzah!

Odds and ends

Nannette invited me to go to Mexico in Aug. and/or Oct. My God, I want to go. We'll see.

I adore my friends. I'm so happy to have good news to share with them for a change.

It's too bad I'm not independently wealthy and have to find a job. I could totally get used to a life of leisure. I'm trying to enjoy it while I can...

I was starting to get the impression that every time someone left my house I'd never see them again. Perhaps this is not true after all.

I have come to adore the words: "I'm not afraid. I'm not running away."

I'm going wine tasting in Sonoma on Saturday with a friend who is likely moving away.

I have new reasons to master the art of making rice pudding.

It seems this job I interviewed for is actually interested in me. Perhaps I will find some sort of employment somewhere after all and not have to start the blow-job drive through that J. and I discussed or the Tenderloin work that Y. and I have been planning for years. That's good. I'm horrible in high heels.

The words "I miss you" have never sounded so good.

"Twin high-maintenance machines..."

Some odds and ends:

I have got to stop staying up all night. Fortunately, the insomnia's died down a bit recently, so most of my nights of going to bed at 5 or 6am of late have been because I was sitting up talking to my twin high-maintenance machine. This was not the case last night, but the end result is the same.

Today I got a birth announcement from my friend Alexis and her partner Ilsa. On March 1st, they had the most adorable baby boy, Theo, and they are thrilled.



I can't wait to talk to Alexis and see Theo in person, but I feel strange. I always feel odd when my friends become parents. I'm not sure I can completely explain why. I just find it so bizarre to witness such a change in someone's life. Knowing them pre-parent and then post-parent.

Less than a year ago, Alexis and I traveled to Poland together. We took ridiculous pictures of each other (a lot more of which got posted of her than of me, 'cause I'm sneaky like that).







And now she's someone's momma!

I don't know exactly where I'm going with this.

[and now for a complete non sequitur...]

Tonight when I was doing laundry I accidentally stepped on a slug en route from my apartment to the garage. I felt horrible. I stood and apologized to it for a full five minutes, feeling helpless that there was nothing I could do undo the harm my stupid feet had caused.

Most days I wish I were thicker-skinned.

Bits of news

My lameness at reporting events on myself is overwhelming. I do, however, have a couple bits of interesting news to share.

First, my friends Dave and Lynn made the NY Times.



Adventure in Tikiland

The both say they were misquoted, but their alleged words were so brilliant that I would totally claim them. I am also envious because this is much, much more interesting than my piddly SF Chronicle appearance.

Second, perhaps it's a good thing Nannette and I got out of Punta Cana without getting sick, as a flight from Punta Cana had to make an emergency landing because of ill passengers.



What I presume were gastrointestinal symptoms would be horrible on a plane. I'm thinking they had too much "sangria especial." That stuff was lethal.

For now I'm off to see Stephen Malkmus.

I am trying really hard not to freak out about this.

There is a chance that I may get back two years worth of federal taxes that I should not have had to pay from back when I was a grad student in Richmond.

The details of how/why are too boring to go into.

Granted, my salary was not even as high as it is now (and it's hard to imagine it being any lower), but still...it would be a very significant chunk of money.

If this happens, I'm going to do something exciting. Very exciting. Maybe I'll cruise around some fjords in Norway. Maybe I'll go back to Capri and try to make my dream of swimming in the Blue Grotto come true. Maybe I'll go see the Red Square in Moscow. Maybe I'll go to Thailand. Maybe I'll visit the souk in Marakesh. Maybe I'll finally see Machu Picchu.

I am getting dizzy. The possibilities are endless.

The quotable Emily Watson

Early this morning I woke up worrying: what do you do when the two people you used to tell everything to are no longer interested or no longer around? When writing and talking to them have become an integral part of the way you process things, how do you go about changing?

I started looking for anything to distract me. I came across a bunch of quotes about plans that I had bookmarked in my computer for unrecalled reasons at some point. There was a quote by Emily Watson, and then there was a link to more quotes by her. I found this sort of odd and thought, 'Are we quoting Emily Watson now?' Anyway, I wanted something--anything--so I started reading the quotes that were attributed to her. Most were unremarkable, but then I came across this one:

"The film "Punch-Drunk Love is how you see the world when you're in love. You don't see someone's psychological baggage necessarily, you see the person walking out of the light."

I thought this was the loveliest thing and it hit a nerve with me. It was also quite appropriate because I haven't seen this movie yet and a couple different people have emphasized that I need to quite recently.

I found another quote by Emily that was also lovely and personal to me. This one was about coming home and spending time with her husband in between movies:

"When I did get home this last time, we had all these plans to go out. And then we hardly stepped outside because the time together seemed too precious."

And then I started pricing plane tickets.

Pre- 31

Last year I posted a thoughtful birthday blog. I suppose this was fitting for the 30th birthday. But 31 is not such a big affair, so I'm freewheelin' a bit more this year.

There are a couple of things that have always happened on my birthday. One was that my grandmother always called and sang "Happy Birthday" to me over the phone. (I'm really going to miss that this year.) The other is that, at some point, my mom calls me and--whether I like it or not--allows me to relive the glory of my birth with her.

This year is a little different because I'll be out of town and incommunicado. Tonight I was at home doing my normal freaking out before any big trip, except this one had a tropical theme ("Where the fuck is my passport!?" and "These are the ugliest bathing suits ever made and Nannette better not judge them," and "I know I have a blue sarong and red flip flops around here somewhere..."). I was also treating myself to my favorite "white trash dinner." [This would be Kraft macaroni and cheese, baked beans, and canned peaches and I'll thank you not to laugh.]

My mom called during all of this excitement and, when I told her what I was eating, said, "I had a 50 cent turkey pot-pie for dinner!" Then she proceeded to tell me about an arm wrestling contest she had just been in where she defeated a beast of a man not once but TWICE. Apparently this man's masculinity was so denigrated that he proceeded to get up from the table without speaking and leave the American Legion in shame. She was very proud of herself and I congratulated her on her guns. I didn't know what else to do.

It was like being home again!

She called again later in the night after closing time at the Legion. As she was getting into her car in the parking lot we started to take our trip down memory lane to the day that I emerged from her loins, but we were interrupted. She was in the middle of fighting with her quasi-boyfriend. He stumbled toward her car yelling because she'd made him return her house keys, and she shouted, "I'm trying to talk to my baby girl!" He paused to say, "Tell her I said hi!" She passed along this information to me: "Junior says hi," [his name really is Junior], and they continued arguing.

Once she got away from all that and was driving home, we had my annual birthday conversation a few days early. She recounted how she went into labor with me during "The Blizzard of '77" and all of the trials and tribulations that went along with it, namely: my grandpa driving her to the hospital on top of a shower curtain so she wouldn't mess up his red crushed-velvet seats, his desperate phone call to the fire department in the middle of the night asking, "Can't you do anything about the roads? I've got a granddaughter coming!" and my mom's amazement that her best friend and my father showed up at the hospital in the same car ("Of course, I didn't know he was fucking her until later!").

It was a good talk.

Anyway, I'm leaving in a couple of hours and I'm going to try and catch a nap first. With any luck I'll finish packing before the Super Shuttle comes; luck is definitely needed, so please wish me it.

Oh, the places you'll go...

It seems that this is the third calendar year that I’ll keep this online journal of sorts. I will confess to having difficulty in writing in it lately because of a perceived need to censor my words and, truthfully, I’m still working on that. Even my usual cryptic tricks don’t seem sufficient at the moment.

Being a new year and all, I feel I should comment on resolutions and goals and all that. But I actually stopped making resolutions a couple years ago, and I’m still quite happy with that decision. I stopped because I felt like setting these goals for myself once a year—no matter what area of my life they were in—was just not often enough. I prefer to try to harness that hopefulness and carry it with me year-round. I want to be constantly setting, striving for, revising, and evaluating my goals.

I want to always be a work in progress.

One thing that makes me happy going into 2008 is that I’m getting something I’ve really wanted for a long time. Some of you may know how much I lament how disappointing birthdays are as an adult. Some of you also know how much I’ve fantasized about taking a trip for my birthday—particularly a tropical trip—and have even received emails in the past from me begging you to go to Puerto Rico or Aruba or Fiji with me (depending on which coast I was living on when I sent the message that year).

Well, this year it’s happening.

I’m pleased to report that I’ve lit a serious fire under Nannette’s already-desiring-travel ass. We took a road trip recently and got our palettes wet. We had an adventure, we discovered that we travel really well together, we bonded even more, and we laughed a lot. Ever since that trip she’s sent me a couple of emails a week with airfare specials or hotel packages she’s come across while dreaming of traveling at work. First we were seriously considering Hawaii, but couldn’t quite get the price we wanted. Then we were thinking Costa Rica. Last week she sent an email with “Munich?” in the subject line.

This is what I like: thinking big. Giant, bold brush-strokes all over this canvas. I don’t give a fuck if it’s still dripping wet—I’m putting it up on my wall.

What I really love is that it has generally always been me begging people to go places or suggesting trips or weekend getaways. It’s wonderful to be on the opposite end. And you know what I said to every suggestion? “Yes.” Munich in winter at 25 degrees? Sure! Hot springs in Reykjavik? Of course! The Dominican Republic? Hell, yes!

I’ll go anywhere. Seriously. And I’ll have a fan-fucking-tastic time.

[blah blah blah]

I am multi-tasking at this moment. Laundry, dishes, open suitcase only 10% filled, phone calls and emails in the process of being returned...

But I needed to write for a few minutes. About big things and little things, but mostly about nothing at all.

On being ready to go:

I find it so funny that I'm never sure whether I want to leave a place or not until I've decided to go. I've been this way about Shepherdstown, WV, Richmond, VA, and now am in the process of it with San Francisco. I can think and ponder and wonder and weigh my options but, suddenly, when I've decided, I've DECIDED. I'm ready to move (literally and figuratively). I guess I'm this way with lots of things in my life--things that I have to think about or work on (papers for school, work, or more creative tasks), and decisions about whether to say something to a particular person or whether to take a particular action.

The annoying part is that once I've made my decision I can't stand to wait around or be delayed. It's agony. How do I get through this?

On my increasing annoyance with my cell phone:

I talk to friends and family a lot, but I'm coming to hate my phone more and more. Perhaps I should clarify: what I'm coming to hate, in particular, is voicemail. I love to call people and call them from all over the place: from under the covers in my bed, while sitting on the beach trying to talk over the wind, while wandering aimlessly around my neighborhood during a period of angst, from the bathtub, from parking lots, while riding on the bus, while sitting in the dark in my backyard, and while sitting at a bar. I often leave babbling and incoherent messages (e.g., Thanksgiving Day). But I hate checking my voicemail! It's like this snowball that keeps rolling down a hill and getting bigger and bigger.

It usually starts like this: I've missed three calls from my mom. I don't bother to listen to her messages because, 1) she says the same damn thing every single time with varying levels of annoyance in her voice depending on how many calls I've missed ("Amie, this is your mother. [insert my eye-rolling here, because there is no doubt about whose voice this is] I was just calling to chat with you but I guess you're not home. I'm at the Legion right now. Call me back if you get a chance, ok?", and 2) not only does she leave the same message every time she calls but she leaves an actual message every time she calls. I don't think she's ever hung up on a voicemail or answering machine in her life; I keep hoping she'll magically start. So I see that she's called three times, skip the messages, and go straight to calling her back.

Later I miss a call from a friend. I know he or she has left a message, but I know that I have to skip through my mom's three messages before listening to it, so--again--I bypass the messages altogether and call the friend back. Said friend always finds it rather offensive and/or surprising that I didn't bother to listen to the message. I'm not sure why given that this has been going on for years.

Anyway, this progresses and progresses until I get a message from someone that I actually NEED to listen to. Then I have to go through the other 25 new messages before getting to that one. Any pleasure I might have gotten from the silly messages from my friends is greatly diluted. And just when I feel relieved that I've finally gotten through them all, it starts all over again.

I won't even describe my irritation with the student that has called me at least twice a week every week since the second week of class. He was abusing this so much that I completely stopped returning his phone calls or acknowledging receipt of his messages. If he asks me in class, "Did you get my message?" I say, "I didn't listen to it. Send me an email next time."

This may be the most boring blog ever written.

List in progress

screwdrivers
pastry brush
coffee pot (French press maybe?)
clock
In Remembrance of Things Past
dictionary
blank book
can opener
2 towels
2 wash clothes
large spoon
vegetable peeler
pictures of grandparents
tweezers
hair clasp
comb
eyeliner
mascara
flip flops
spatula
wooden spoon
2 dish towels
2 dish cloths
recorder
lotion
scissors
pastry cutter
sunglasses
good pens
measuring cups
a few envelopes
measuring spoons
Q-tips
meat thermometer
adapter for laptop
camera
wrench
wine bottle opener
flash drive
cards
recipe box
sharpie
pillow cases
lighter/matches
iPod
key ring
potholder
umbrella

We writhe and we burn, and not a head turns. Does anyone see this but me?

On the day that I left Richmond for good to head to San Francisco, I was exhausted.

The previous two weeks had been a non-stop series of good-bye parties and activities with friends and co-workers. There was a lot of, "Let's do this one more time..." I was still teaching a class up until a couple days before I left. I knew that I was severely neglecting my packing, but spending time with those that I was leaving behind was more important to me. It meant that I pretty much packed up, donated, and/or threw away everything in my entire apartment in three days, but it was worth it.

After slamming the door of the moving truck for the last time, I climbed in the driver's seat of the car, resigned to begin what would be a multi-day journey. Chris was feeling emotional, and he looked at me incredulously and said, "I can't believe you're not more upset about this." (Usually I had enough emotion for several people bubbling out of me constantly.)

He was wrong, though. On that late afternoon in the summertime in front of 3333 W. Grace Street, the emotions were so intense they were about to boil over. My grief at leaving the best friends I had known to that point, the city that had come to be my home, and the place I came into myself; my intense fear of what was to come and whether I'd make it; my desire to go, move, and change--the only way I could keep my shit together to be able to drive down the street was to put a heavy lid on it for the time being.

I told him, "Please. I can't. I just can't or I'll never be able to leave."

Then I turned the car on, checked on the birds one last time before starting out, clicked the cd player on, and drove down the street and out of town. I didn't look back once. I couldn't, or I would never have gotten anywhere.